Interregnum: Icarus
by ConcertiGrossi
Summary: Herein lies the author's humble speculation as to what happened to James Norrington between when the Dauntless sank, and when he re-entered the story in DMC.
1. Icarus

**Interregnum: Icarus  
**

by ConcertiGrossi

edited by PinkSiamese and RexLuscus on livejournal.

**Author's Note:** This is the first part of a three part series. I swore, I suh-WORE I would never write character torture, but, apparently I am forsworn. Be warned: this is not a happy fic. The beginning is depressing, the ending is depressing and the bits in between are, well, depressing. Basically, I needed a detailed account of how James went from being a Commodore to ending up in a bar in Tortuga. Canon wasn't especially helpful, so I wrote it myself. This can be considered to be a prequel to the Big Fic that I've been working on for ages.

You'll also note that I list PinkSiamese and RexLuscus as editors, not betas. I did that because if this fic is at all readable, it is due, in the main, to their able assistance, both with streamlining my prose and the copious quantities of moral support that this fic required.

Consider it the literary equivalent of holding my hair back as I puked into the toilet.

* * *

**A BURNT SHIP.**

Out of a fired ship, which by no way  
But drowning could be rescued from the flame,  
Some men leap'd forth, and ever as they came  
Near the foes' ships, did by their shot decay ;  
So all were lost, which in the ship were found,  
They in the sea being burnt, they in the burnt ship drowned.

John Donne

_This is it. _The storm raged as he clung to the spar. _This is how I'm going to die._

The _Dauntless_ was gone; swamped and foundered after she was brought by the lee. After the tiller broke. After the masts were struck by lightning.

If only they'd gone around the storm.

If only he had turned back.

If only he'd relieved the helmsman sooner.

If. If. If.

James was so tired.

There was pain and there was cold and he was aware of them in the abstract. All his concentration fell on finding enough air to breathe. The ferocity of the storm erased the line between sea and atmosphere. To draw one would bring life, the draw the other would bring death.

His muscles gave out as the wind did. A small part of his lethargic consciousness reflected on the bitter irony of it: that he should drown as the storm gave out.

The spar slipped from his hands. Water closed around his head. A cramp of will seized him and he struck for the surface. He found the strength to break the surface and suck in one good breath. His body came to the end of its endurance. As seawater burned cold in his lungs, his brain rippled with numb panic.

Would Elizabeth mourn him?

Probably not.

And the world went black.

* * *

His eyes snapped open. His middle clenched and he spewed seawater all over his

lap. Pitiless blue sky glared down. The sun was hot. The heaves struck again and he clawed his way to the side of the boat. Hands restrained him as he vomited the last of his bile.

"Are you all right, sir?"

James looked at the rail between his hands. He was in a longboat.

"We didn't think you'd make it."

Why was he in a longboat? James looked around and saw twelve men, several of

them wounded, a lot of them with their uniforms partially ripped off. All of them looked like drowned rats. All of them stared.

His memory sputtered. Events unrolled in his mind.

Ah. That's right.

Oh, Christ.

He looked to Captain Andrew Gillette. "Is this it?"

"Briggs and I found the longboat," replied the Captain. "We managed to get it righted. We've been picking up men as we've gone… but you were the last, several hours ago."

Nausea welled up inside him. He felt a searing, stabbing, phantom pain, a hollow agony borne of guilt and despair. Twelve faces looked back at him. Five hundred and seventeen men had gone into the water.

Five hundred and seventeen.

He retched. Tears stung his eyes.

"It was Menzenes who found you, sir," said Gillette. "How he spotted you, I don't know. He dragged you up just in time."

"I owe you my thanks," said James.

"Twas nothing, sir. Ain't nothing no one here wouldn't have done." Menzenes looked like hell. A huge knot glowed purple on his head. Splinters from debris embedded in the torn skin.. "If they'd spotted you first."

James looked again at the men in the boat. His control tottered and he reined it in, locking his emotions in place. These men relied on him. He would be their rock, as he always had.

"Report." His words were crisp. "I need count of the wounded and detailed knowledge of their injuries."

They identified the wounded (most of them), administered what first aid was possible (very little), and tallied their supplies (it didn't take long.) James set the least debilitated men to watch, but all of them kept their eyes on the sea, alert to any sign of their missing comrades. There were sharks. A few bodies swirled in their wakes, but no more were found alive.

Darkness fell. The cool of night was a blessed relief, but it reduced their visibility and cloaked them from searching eyes. A small mercy came in the form of a long, gentle rainstorm. Their few containers filled with potable water. James ordered his men to attempt sleep while he took the first watch.

A few hours later Andrew woke with a racking cough. He climbed over the bodies of the others and took a seat next to James.

Norrington took his restless eyes off the sea. They searched the face of his friend. "Are you all right, Andrew?"

"It's nothing." Gillette smothered a cough. "Are you?"

"I'm… uninjured."

"It's not your fault, you know," whispered Andrew. "You didn't make the hurricane."

"I won't discuss this now," said James.

Andrew said nothing. He tried to sleep, but sleep was elusive. James's lack of a response didn't offend him, but he was worried.

And with good reason.

* * *

Five hundred and four men gone.

Provided, of course, that no one else succumbed to their injuries. The very thought punched him in the gut. Theodore Groves, his dear friend, was most certainly dead. He saw the truth of it in Andrew's eyes, but neither of them dared speak the words. The continued existence of the survivors depended on leadership and morale. He had to maintain his façade for his men. It was all that remained of his job.

He could always dwell on lighter things: his flagship was gone, his career was gasping its last breath.

The full brunt of it fell upon his shoulders. What the hell had he been thinking? Sparrow was gone, out of reach. He had no ship and no career and no dignity and no honor…

Five hundred and four men gone. Men who had trusted him with their lives.

Damn you straight to hell, James Norrington.

He'd done it for her. He'd released Sparrow to garner her favor, though he'd known in his heart she was already lost to him. Her father, the Governor of Port Royal, had wanted it. A dandy man who never could deny her freckled face and her sweet smile, though the Lord knew he was no different. Hadn't he been taken in by such a pretty?

Though he longed to hate her, he could only hate himself. He let the pirate go. He gave the orders to keep going into the storm.

Five hundred and four men gone.

It was eating him alive.

A tap on the shoulder snapped him from his reverie. Andrew, looking both pallid and flushed. Not a good sign.

"Get some rest, James," he admonished.

Once James closed his eyes he dropped off the edge into a deep sleep.

He didn't know it was the last untroubled sleep he would know for quite some time.

* * *

Dawn came. Menzenes and Kelley had died during the night. James read the funeral service over them from memory, and they consigned the men to the deep. None of them could bear to watch the sharks haul them away. An unbreakable silence fell over the boat. Most of the men stared at the horizon. James knew the moment all hope abandoned their company; he watched it perish one blank face at a time.

Five hundred and six men gone.

He'd never lost a ship. He'd never lost so many in one fell swoop. Good men to the last one, sacrificed on the lovestruck altar of his pride. It was a stupid waste.

Five hundred and six souls.

The sun rose and fell and so began their second night on the sea. The men uttered delirious talk of food, outlining in detail the great feasts of their childhood, the foods they would gorge themselves on. Their fresh water was almost gone. James ordered everyone to piss into an empty bottle. Sooner or later he'd have to order them to drink it.

He didn't relish the thought.

McKeown, he noticed, had given up on pretense: the man habitually kept a rosary hidden next to his skin, and was now openly telling off the beads. It wasn't good for morale but he'd be damned if he was going to deprive the man of that comfort. Not in this extremity.

And perhaps there was something to Popery, after all. For at the dawn, when Eos' rosy fingers started to spread across the sky, it was McKeown who spotted the sail.

* * *

The _Stalwart_ took them on to Cadiz, and the _Victorious_ took them home to Port Royal. Dying was done, thank God. He made sure the remaining few had the best care possible. The officers and the crews of both ships treated him with kindness, but it was a gentle kindness, the sort paid out to the unfortunate and the diminished.

The whispering had begun.

Once upon a time, he'd been the proud possessor of a fleet-wide reputation. He was sterling. James Norrington: Post-captain at twenty-five and commodore at thirty-three, the youngest in the history of the Gazette. It was bad form to be smug, but, on the other hand, he'd never been the sort to hide his light under the proverbial bushel. Such honors came weighted with heavy responsibility. Such was enough to keep burgeoning pride in check, or so he had once thought. James Norrington, modern-day Icarus: his pride had goeth on and the fall was mighty. He recalled with a bitter twist of the lips how a few years back, his father had written that Samuel Johnson had started work on a new dictionary of the English language.

_Perhaps I should send Mr. Johnson a letter. The new definition of 'hubris': 'James E. Norrington.'_

They were on the _Victorious_, three weeks' out to sea, before Andrew managed to pin James down for a private conversation. James was sweating out the umpteenth draft of his report on the loss of the _Dauntless_ in his cabin when Andrew found him, and James was forced to note that his friend did not look well at all.

"Get some rest," said James. "You need it."

"So said the pot to the kettle." Andrew's eyes burned with a febrile light. "We've got almost a month before we're home. I'll be fine."

"You look like hell."

"So do you. When's the last time you slept?"

"Last night. Obviously."

"For more or less than four hours?"

The chair gave a squeak as he pushed back from the desk. In the Great Cabin of the _Dauntless_, he would have had room to pace. Here, he hardly had room to turn around.

"Decidedly less." The nightmares had come again last night. They came every night, rending his peaceful hours with rain-soaked images of death and destruction. The flat eyes of the sharks. The blank hopelessness in the faces of his men. His men. One nightmare crowned the others: he was on the quarterdeck of the _Dauntless_, his ship and crew restored to him as they were before the storm. All was well, and he would just start relaxing into the idea that the sinking had been the horrible nightmare, when the moon came out, and...

"Ask Dr. MacNulty for a sleeping draught."

"If I do, will you let the matter drop?"

"All I said was that you look like you need some sleep…"

"You'll try to say again that it wasn't my fault. I ignored any semblance of good sense, I ignored everything I knew about the weather, and I ignored everything my officers told me. So I would ask you, Andrew, whose fault was it?"

Andrew opened his mouth, and closed it again. "What do you expect to accomplish by beating yourself to a pulp? Do you want me to get the cat out and lay into you? Your guilt won't bring them back. You'd think this was the first time a ship had ever been lost at sea."

A muscle tightened in James's jaw. He wouldn't look at Gillette. He gave his sharpened attention to the top of the desk. "It was the first time a ship under my command has been lost at sea."

"Is that what this is about? That it turns out the Great James Norrington is fallible? Is it that five hundred men died, James, or the fact that you turned out to be human after all that's bothering you so much?"

James leapt from the chair, but, fortunately for Andrew, his hot reply was cut off by James' head slamming against the low ceiling. "How dare you…" he started, once the stars disappeared from behind his eyes, and trailed off. Andrew was bent nearly double in a coughing fit that turned his face a deep, purpled red. "Are you all right? Shall I fetch MacNulty?"

"No. I'll be well. Just give me a minute." Andrew gasped, and fell back into the chair. "I'm sorry, James, I didn't mean…"

"I know you didn't. It's all right." James tried to reassure him. "Come on…" he said, once Andrew could stand. "Let's get you back to your bunk."

"I'll be fine."

"Please. I can't bear losing you, too."

Andrew allowed James to lead him back to his cabin.

* * *

In the weeks of their journey back to Port Royal, Andrew's fever and cough turned putrid. It was MacNulty's prescription to send him north, to cooler climes and wholesome air, but, despite all threats and entreaties, Andrew refused to go. When the ship moored he was carried off on a litter. James saw to it personally that his friend was placed in the care of the town's best doctor.

Nevertheless, his primary duty could not be delayed indefinitely. James knew Admiral Clay's office well; it was, after all, the scene of so many of his former triumphs. The austere space brought him no comfort, now. He'd witnessed his commanding officer's screaming rage. He'd seen him bellow like a threatened bull and break things and growl.

But he'd never seen him speechless.

"Do you want to explain this, Norrington?"

"I can offer no explanation, sir. I misjudged the storm."

"How, precisely, does one misjudge a hurricane?"

"One does not expect hurricanes in the Mediterranean, sir."

"WELL YOU CAN BLOODY WELL RECOGNIZE ONE ONCE YOU'RE ON TOP OF IT, CAN'T YOU?" The man was approaching apoplexy. "And Sparrow still lives."

"Yes, sir."

"After the _Interceptor_ – the flagship – a useless loss!"

James stood stock-still. His soul had long since been reduced a kicked and shivering puppy. There was little Clay could say to make it worse.

"Well. You know as well as I do what has to happen now."

"I do, sir."

"Bauer's been doing your job since you left. He can damn well keep on doing it. You're on suspension until I can convene a Court Martial. If you'll give me your parole, you may have freedom of the town, but nothing further. Unless, of course, you wish to save us all the trouble

of this bloody mess with your resignation."

"Not at this time, sir," said James. "You have my parole."

"This is a god-damned bollixed-up debacle of the first water, Norrington. If it were anyone but you, I'd see to his hanging and be glad of it. Now get the hell out, and send in Bauer. Dismissed."

* * *

Captain Frederick Bauer was conflicted. He and Norrington were friends, of a sort, and it didn't do to kick a man when he was down. Not to mention that it would take a foolhardy captain indeed to think himself above the possibility of ending up in James's shoes: the sea was a notoriously harsh mistress. But James Norrington's fall meant opportunity for everyone else.

James looked up as Commodore Bauer came out of the Admiral's office. "If there's anything I can do to help…" said James.

"Much appreciated, but not necessary, I think. I've no doubt this'll get cleared up in no time, and you'll be back writing reports and requisitions until your hand falls off." Bauer said words he didn't believe with a heartiness he didn't feel.

James gave a stiff little smile. "One can only hope."

On the way back to the fort a pregnant young woman stepped into their path. She was blonde and young and would have been quite pretty, had her eyes not been so swollen and red. Her belly was mountainous.

"Commodore Norrington?"

"May I assist you, madam?"

She hauled back her hand and slapped him across the face. James was stunned; he stumbled back a step, his palm pressed to his stinging cheek. The girl's eyes refilled with tears.

"It's your fault my Elijah's dead!" she screamed.

He was dumbfounded. "What?"

"Don't you even know your own crew? You killed him, sure as the sun rises tomorrow!" Spit flew from her mouth. "My babe won't know his father, and he won't know his uncle either, and it's ALL YOUR FAULT!"

She pounded each word into his chest. She was weak and small and ungainly and it was no effort to catch hold of her wrists. His fingers closed around the fragile bones. Her weeping dissolved into piteous sobs. He looked into her pinched face and the memory fell into place: Elijah Storrell, gunner's mate. His brother-in-law, a marine named Jacob Warren, had been killed at the Isla de Muerta.

Good God.

"Fanny? Fanny! What have you done?" An older woman ran up to them, followed closely by a gentleman Norrington assumed was her husband. They both looked abashed and terrified.

"Mama," Fanny wailed. She took hold of her mother's hands and pulled on them, lost in her grief. "He killed Elijah! My Elijah!"

"Please forgive her, sir," said the girl's father, tugging his forelock. "It's her condition, you know…it touches them in the head."

James somehow found his voice. "Naturally."

Warren laid one hand on his daughter's shoulder and one on his wife's. He guided them away. The girl collapsed on the older woman's shoulder and fell apart.

"There is nothing to forgive." James struggled with a quiver in his lower lip. He bit the inside of his cheek, doffed his hat, and executed a precise bow. "Madam, I condole with you." His voice remained calm. "Your husband was an excellent sailor and a credit to His Majesty's Navy."

She roused a little. She looked at him with wet, furious eyes. "Go to hell. You couldn't even catch your bloody pirate, could you? You cold, bloodless bastard. Elijah died so you'd save your neck. And Jacob died so's you could save Miss Swann's blacksmith!"

"For God's sake, Eliza," Mr. Warren cried to his wife. 'Get her out of here!"

Mrs. Warren put her arms around her daughter. "Sir, I am sorry."

"You needn't apologize," said James. "I am sorry for her loss, and yours, and I

hope she will be safely delivered. Now, if you will excuse me…"

"Of course. But sir…" Mr. Warren stopped James. "What she said… the Missus and I, we know it's not true. Jacob and Elijah, they always said you was the best officer in any Service, sir. We know you did everything you could for them."

Mrs. Storrell's anger had been ever so much easier to bear. It hurt him, but in a scourging, righteous way. He felt it his due. Mr. Warren's quiet acceptance and forgiveness were pure agony. "They were good men." James cleared his throat. "I owed them no less."

Mr. Warren nodded. His eyes gleamed and James saw he was holding back tears. He turned to follow his wife and daughter.

James straightened up, and stalked onwards. He ignored the stares of the onlookers. Commodore Bauer opened his mouth to say something and saw the thunder on Norrington's brow and thought better of it.

* * *

He went to his address in town to get a few changes of clothes and some books. He'd thought about moving back in, for the duration, but it was too much trouble to re-open the house when he didn't know for how long he would be able to possess it. He walked through the dusty rooms with their drop-cloth covered furniture. _Tell the truth…_ said a little voice in the blackest depths of his heart. _You don't want to live in the house you bought to give to her._ He gathered his things up quickly and left for the barracks.

Commodore Bauer had given him the use of an office/bunk in the officer's quarters. It was small, and Spartan, but it was adequate for his current needs. He sat down and rested his head in his hands for just a moment. He then busied himself setting up a workspace: taking out the paper; filling the inkwell; sharpening a quill, but as meticulous as he might be going about these petty tasks, they took a finite and all-too-short amount of time. He sighed, and began a letter to Mrs. Lambert Groves.

He had to write letters to the officers' families, at the very least.

He was engaged in this doleful task when Governor Swann found him. "Commo- Captain! I can't tell you how glad I was to hear of your deliverance."

He stood up at the Governor's entrance. "Thank you, sir." He gestured to the chair next to the desk, and sat down after Swann did.

"I'm afraid this is the best I can offer you, sir. Commodore Bauer has more need of the office upstairs than I do right now."

"This is utter madness. We shall simply have to see to it that these arrangements are short-lived."

"I have no great hope of that. _The Dauntless_ was lost courtesy of my negligence. I believe strongly that the most optimistic outcome is that I will be cashiered."

"Comm- Captai-… James… you may rest assured I will do everything in my power for you. I cannot help but feel a measure of responsibility for this situation. We both know why – no, let me finish. We must not mince words." Swann held up his hand at James' protests. "We both know why you set Sparrow free, and for whom."

"I thank you, sir, but my mistakes are mine and mine alone."

"Consider the poet's words: 'No man is an island', James."

"I was in command, Governor, and I failed in my duty. If I am to be dismissed, perhaps it is for the best."

"Poppycock!" Swann thumped his cane on the floor. "That this incident was a tragedy, I concede, but I do not see how England's interests will be served by you falling on your sword. Tomorrow night, you and I will dine, and we will map out your strategy…"

James hesitated, but Weatherby Swann, for all his faults, did not get to his position by being stupid, and continued. "Elizabeth, unfortunately, will be unable to join us. She has gone to visit some friends in Kingston for a few days…"

"A pity, indeed." he lied. It was a comfort, James thought, to have at least one staunch advocate. With his help, perhaps this wouldn't be a total rout.

Nevertheless, James' brief flirtation with cheer and hope disappeared with the Governor. "No man is an island." Had the old man even read the rest of that Meditation, or had he just heard that quotation someplace and thought it profound? He heard his father's voice read forth Donne's lines:

_No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee._

"Any man's death diminishes me." What did being responsible for five hundred and six deaths get you? A bloody carillon of funereal knells, that's for damned sure.

He suddenly wanted a drink, very badly.

The barracks were never precisely quiet; they couldn't be, with so many men in such a small place, but in all his days he had never felt so alone. He worked on the letters until his hand cramped, and he needed to rest. He massaged his right hand ruefully. He ought to go to the mess, to eat something, but the thought of food turned his stomach. He wanted company, but the patronizing pity of his fellow officers would be intolerable. There was another option… but if he were discovered, it would make his already-difficult situation worse. Although… if he were discreet… if he didn't stay long… it could be done, if he were careful.

She'd probably be expecting him, anyway.

* * *

He changed into civilian clothing, and stuck to the side streets and alleyways. He entered the establishment via the back door reserved for regulars who needed anonymity. The bouncer let him in with a nod. "Is she busy?" James asked.

"You'll have to wait, sir." said the bouncer, and gestured to a tiny salon next to the back stairs. At least here, no one would see him.

The bad news had spread like wildfire through the town. The_Dauntless_ had been stationed in Port Royal long enough that a not-insignificant number of the townsfolk had friends or loved ones of some relation on the great ship. And those relatives had besieged the dock, desperate to hear that their loved ones were safe.

Most of them were disappointed.

Even those who had no one to mourn directly were affected by the tragedy. Considering the circumstances, most felt it wrong to go merrymaking on such a night and, as a result, it was shaping up to be a slow evening at the Maison du Sol-Se-Levant, Port Royal's most refined and dignified den of iniquity.

Some of the girls had clients who were on the ship as well, but one didn't become a whore without learning to cry behind a smile. They pasted their game faces on, and did their best to cheer up the few men who came in… with one exception.

Laetitia, her real name left behind a long time ago and far away, fully expected one of her regular clients that evening. She had the barkeep bring up a bottle of his favorite scotch, and gave orders to the kitchen to have one of his favorite meals at the ready. He would come, she knew it. She knew him better than anyone, she fancied, and he would need her tonight. That she desperately wanted to see him; that her heart had been in her mouth ever since she'd heard that the _Dauntless_ had gone down was entirely immaterial. She fussed a little with her makeup, and, in a fit of indecision, changed her outfit.

There was a knock at the door, and one of the maids stuck her head in. "Madam says to tell you he's here."

"Well, send him up!" she said. "Wait… how does he look?"

The maid grimaced. "Better you than me that has to deal with him…" she said, and vanished back down the hall.

Well, that boded ill… and with good reason, she thought, as he walked into her chamber.

Holy God, he looked horrible.

The dark circles under his eyes made him look like he'd been in a fight; he obviously hadn't been sleeping. If she had to guess, she'd say he hadn't been eating well, either. Every line spoke of worry and pain and she wanted, more than anything in the world, to soothe them all away.

James raised an eyebrow. "Do I look as terrible as all that?" he asked, his mouth quirking up into a humorless half-smile.

She gave a brittle laugh, and closed the door behind him. _Never to me,_ she wanted to say. "I'm so glad you're safe." She wrapped her arms around him. Surprised as he was by the intensity of her reaction, it took him a second to reciprocate, but reciprocate he did. He pressed her close, ran one hand through her hair next to her scalp, and kissed the top of her head.

She broke the embrace, and pulled him to sit next to her on the couch. "Is it as bad as everyone's saying?" she asked.

"It's worse." He took off his hat and his wig, threw them on the table and ran his hands through his hair.

"Tell me what happened." she said, wanting to know but afraid to hear. She poured out a healthy measure of the scotch and handed a glass to him.

"What is there to say?" he knocked back a swallow of the amber liquid, and stared pensively at the remainder in the glass. Haltingly, he confessed and his words came faster and faster… "We were chasing that damned Sparrow, may he burn in Hell. I pushed them on into the storm. Andrew, Theo, Simmons and Gibson told me to stop, begged me. They were right. I knew they were right. The _Dauntless_ went down and now..."

He paused. His eyes unfocussed, as if he was staring off beyond the walls. She pressed her hand to his knee, but he didn't notice.

"I have failed. I have failed so completely and utterly. There is no reasonable explanation for what I did. And it accomplished nothing." Laetitia noticed a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"It would have been better had I drowned with my men." he finished quietly, still looking off into the distance.

She remembered to breathe, but only barely. "Don't talk like that. You mustn't ever talk like that. James, I was so afraid when I heard that the _Dauntless_ sank." She bit her lip.

James looked at her in surprise. The terrified tone of her voice had snapped him back to the present: he hadn't expected it at all. He put his arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry. I'm frightening you…"

"I just… You won't do anything rash, will you?" Her voice quavered.

"Of course not. Putting a period to my life won't help matters now." He looked up at the ceiling.

"Oh God, James… this isn't like you in the least!" she fretted. "What has happened to you?"

He took a deep breath. He wanted to pour it all out in her lap. He couldn't sleep, not like he needed. The few hours he managed to fitfully slumber were plagued with nightmares. He couldn't eat. He second-guessed every decision, every move. He felt useless and hopeless and deserving of death.

And, as he looked down into the dark, panicking eyes of the delicate girl on his shoulder, he realized that he couldn't put it into words. It would not be fair to shift this burden onto her narrow frame: it was too much to ask of a woman in her position. It would be a sin for him to take advantage of her friendship. She was another person he needed to protect. He let the breath out slowly and put the glass down on the table. He took her in both of his arms and kissed her forehead, smiling weakly. "It's just been hard. You mustn't worry so. Not on my account..." He drew her back to his shoulder, kissed the top of her head again, and breathed in the scent of her hair.

She felt him retreat from her and wanted to scream. "Stay until morning." she begged, and traced a pattern on his waistcoat with her fingers.

"I cannot. Good Lord, if it got about that I was here tonight, of all nights?"

He was absolutely right, damn him.

"I just… I wanted…" he trailed off.

She could see him trying to find the words, and failing. She gave a half-smile, and took pity. "I know. I'm glad you came. It has been so long…"

She snaked her arms around his waist as he pulled her into a hard embrace. His voice went tight, a sure betrayal of repressed emotion. "I couldn't bear anyone else's company but yours, tonight."

A part of her thrilled to that meager compliment as if it were a passionate declaration of love, and she hated herself for it. After a time, she pulled herself together, and away from him. "At any rate," she said, "you'll eat something decent while you're here." She got up and pulled the bell for a servant. "You look half-starved."

He had no appetite at all, but, to please her, he would make an effort. "Well, that's hardly something a gentleman wants to hear." he said dryly, and sipped the rest of his scotch.

"Well, then the gentleman in question should take better care of himself…" she shot back saucily, and arranged her face in a smile. This was familiar ground, at least.

He stayed only for another hour or so. At this point, they were each putting on a show for the other.

And they both knew it.

* * *

First thing in the morning, he went to check on Andrew. Andrew was barely conscious, drifting in and out of delirium, and his fevers ran on unabated despite all the treatments Dr. Jackson could devise.

Dr. Jackson was also not a man given to sugar-coating the truth. "It's out of my hands, now. We'll do all we can for him, but you must prepare yourself for the worst. Has he any family in town? They should be summoned."

"I'll see to it. Thank you, Doctor." James said as little as possible. It couldn't precisely be said that his wounds had begun to heal, but they were certainly being ripped open afresh at the prospect of the lingering death of the five-hundred-and-seventh victim.

* * *

Andrew didn't have family close enough to summon, but he and the daughter of one of the minor plantation owners on the island had had a longtime understanding. Bringing Miss Sarah Murdoch to stay with friends in Port Royal and escorting her to the fort at least gave him something productive to do, and if she spent the entire time pointedly not mentioning the fact that he was responsible for her almost-fiancé's almost-death, well, he was getting used to that.

* * *

Dinner with the Governor went well. It had been years since Weatherby had been a barrister, but the man's experience stood James in good stead, now. They met together twice more over the next few days; each time, Swann sent James back to the Fort with a pile of legal reading to do. James suspected that the man was giving him a bit more to read than was strictly necessary, to keep him from wallowing in sorrow, but as it worked, he made no complaint.

The only downside to this was that it made it a great deal harder to avoid Elizabeth. Swann had been sending her to visit distant friends and distant relatives all throughout the West Indies in the hopes that she would forget her blacksmith, but all attempts so far had proved fruitless, and she returned again about a week after he had landed in Port Royal.

As he was leaving after their third cram session, he heard an all-too-familiar voice cry his name from the staircase. "James!"

Wincing inwardly, he turned. "Miss Swann." he greeted her formally, bowing his head.

She ran down the stairs, overjoyed, but something in his face made her stop short of embracing him. "James, I was so happy to hear that you were spared!"

Her warm greeting melted a little of the frost that had settled around his heart. "Thank you."

"But your men! And your ship… I am so sorry, James…" said sadly. "Are you all right?"

The ice thawed a bit further at her genuine emotion. "Again, I thank you. I was fortunate enough to escape injury when the _Dauntless_ went down."

"That wasn't what I meant." She touched his sleeve gently, and looked up into his eyes.

She truly did not mean to manipulate him, he was sure. She was so very young, in some ways; she had no idea of the effect her reactions produced, or how to temper them appropriately. And against his better judgment, against every conscious thought, he began to warm to her. "We learn to bear what we must," he said simply. A more perceptive person would have seen the need to talk behind his eyes; the need to pour forth his grief and pain, and could have pressed him further, but Elizabeth could claim no such skills. She took his bland statement at face value.

And so, with a little too much concern in her voice, she asked him precisely the wrong question. "And Jack Sparrow? Did you catch him? Did you sink the Pearl?"

James' spine fused together ramrod-straight, and his tone froze over. "Your pet pirate still lives, Miss Swann."

She had the grace to look abashed. "That wasn't what I meant… I was just… I mean… I'm sorry."

"So I gathered." He turned to leave, and she stopped him.

"James, I…" she started, but he cut her off.

"It pleases you to Christian-name me, Miss Swann, but given the circumstances, I no longer think it is appropriate. Good day."

He turned on his heel and left.

Elizabeth watched him go, in hurt confusion, and tried unsuccessfully to think of a way to remedy the situation.

* * *

Returning to his office in a temper, he found a letter on the desk from England in an unfamiliar hand. He broke the seal, read it through, and blanched.

He sat down heavily, abruptly. His knees felt like they'd turned to jelly.

He read the letter again.

No. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. Not now.

He got up and closed the door, and returned to the chair. He picked up the letter once more, as if perhaps the contents might have changed in the intervening few seconds.

They hadn't.

For the first time in his adult life, he wanted to be able to cry. He wanted to roar out his rage and grief and bellow at the unfairness of it all.

But the tears wouldn't come. It was as if he'd forgotten how.

He sat there, stunned for a time, and then got up to go demand an appointment with Admiral Clay.

* * *

"Sir, I need to take leave."

"You've got walloping great brass balls, Norrington, asking for leave in the middle of a bloody court-martial."

"I must return to England. My father has died."

Clay was not a completely heartless man, for all his bluster, and the good head of rage he'd been building up dissipated. "Bloody hell." he said. "Sit down, boy."

James took the proffered chair, and stared straight ahead. He was becoming numb.

His superior rubbed his gin-blossomed face with his hand. "I'm sorry. I truly am. But with the proceedings about to start tomorrow, I can't allow that."

"If I were to resign?" James asked flatly.

"Well, yes, that would obviously be different, but –"

"Then I resign, sir. You'll have my letter immediately."

"Clay held up a hand, as if to restrain him. "Wait. Think this through, James…"

"I have. Good-bye." He got up and walked out without another word.

He was intercepted by Jackson's apprentice on his way back to the barracks. "Doctor Jackson says you're to come at once, sir." said the boy.

James hurried to Andrew's quarters, willing himself not to break into a run. He nearly bumped in to Miss Murdoch. She was openly weeping, and fumbling through her reticule for a handkerchief.

He handed her his. "Is he…?"

She looked at him, unable to speak, and gestured to the slightly-ajar door.

He peeked into the room. Jackson was packing up his things, but there was another figure next to Andrew's bed, holding his hand. The figure spoke.

"O Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of just men made perfect, after they are delivered from their earthly prisons: We humbly commend the soul of this thy servant, our dear brother, into thy hands, as into the hands of a faithful Creator, and most merciful Saviour; most humbly beseeching thee, that it may be precious in thy sight…"

James staggered back from the door. He knew all too well, as a vicar's son, the words of that prayer: it was "A Commendatory Prayer for a Sick Person at the Point of Departure." It was a prayer for the souls of the almost-dead. As much as he'd known it was coming to this, as much as Jackson had tried to prepare him, it proved to be more than he could bear. He turned to the red-eyed Miss Murdoch.

"You'll stay with him?" he demanded. "He won't be alone?"

"Of course!" she said, looking at him angrily. "Where are you going?"

"Home."


	2. Antaeus

**Author's Note: **It really doesn't get any happier.

* * *

The trip back to England was at once endless and all too quick. He spent the majority of it in his cabin; for the first time in his life, watching the green swells chase the blue horizon gave him no comfort. He tried to read, but even his favorite volumes brought him no surcease of sorrow. There was no balm in Gilead that could his wretched heart restore.

He started drinking a great deal more than he ought. The alcohol was the only thing he'd found to make the nightmares stop, and without the routine and responsibilities of his former position, he had no reason to abstain. He was becoming a slave to his grief, and insensibility was far preferable to consciousness.

* * *

It was late October by the time he found his way to Inverskern in Devon. He couldn't stay warm; the sweltering tropics had thinned his blood, and he shivered in the cold damp of England in the fall. He hadn't been back more than a handful of times in the two decades since he'd left (and not at all after he was stationed in Port Royal), but, for all that the town had changed, it might as well have been two days.

An extra consideration to the stage-coach driver got him dropped off at the path to the vicarage instead of at the Public House, and he went through the gate in the night. The house seemed smaller than it did in his memories, somehow. As he was bringing his trunk in the house, a round, motherly figure burst forth from the kitchen.

"Master James!" she cried out. "How good it is to see you again!" She started towards him as if to give him a hug, but remembered just in time that he was no longer the boy she'd helped raise. She bobbed a slight curtsey.

He gave her the first real smile he'd had on his face for a very long time. "And you, Mrs. Abbott… I trust you're well?"

"Fair enough… you look thin. Don't they feed you well enough in the Navy?" she asked. Another figure came forward from the kitchen. "Norrington!" James recognized Edmund Fletcher: curate of the parish, brought in a decade ago when his father's age started to make the duties of the office difficult. Mr. Fletcher reached out to shake his hand, and James reciprocated. "We're so happy you're home, though I wish it were under better circumstances. I am so sorry."

"Thank you…." The house had scarcely changed since the day he was last here. He glanced around. "I wish I could have been here in time."

"Even had there been any warning, he wouldn't have let us send for you," said Mr. Fletcher.

"No." James gave a sad smile. Admitting to illness had not been in his father's nature.

Mrs. Abbot, long used to being the practical mind in the household, took charge. "Well, let's not just stand here… come in and get yourself warmed up. Have you dined? I was just going to serve Mr. Fletcher some tea before bed, but if you'd like something more substantial…" She divested James of his hat and coat, bustled them both back into the kitchen, and made them sit down. James refused all offers of dinner, so Mrs. Abbot served out the tea and biscuits (limeflower tea and sponge-cake: his favorites of old), and glowered merrily at him until he actually ate something. He half-heartedly nibbled on the slice of cake, dipping it in the tea, just as he had as a child. The usual questions about their respective states of health and the difficulty of James' journey were brought up and disposed of.

"What happened?" James asked as soon as those formalities were done with.

Mrs. Abbott gave him a sad smile, and laid her hand on his. "It was as peaceful an end as you could have asked for. He went to bed, as usual, and slipped away in the night. We should all be so fortunate, when our time comes…"

James nodded. That was something, at least. "I'm glad."

Fletcher cleared his throat. "There must've been over two hundred people at the funeral… a few came from as far as Barnstaple. He will be sorely missed."

"Lord and Lady Leynham came down to pay their respects."

"Yes… Lord Leynham gave a very touching eulogy. He was quite overcome… I have never seen him so affected," said Fletcher.

James wasn't surprised: his father had tutored Robert, Baron Leynham back when his lordship was a young man preparing for Cambridge, and they'd been friends ever since. James' heart ached. "A fitting tribute…" he said, finally.

"Nothing more than your father deserved, and he has gone on to his eternal reward in Heaven. As much as we shall all feel his loss, you more than any of us, there is more to celebrate than to mourn on this occasion."

_Still speaking in sermons, I see…_ thought James, somewhat unkindly. The man meant well. His father had thought very highly of him, even if he did tend a bit towards the pompous. "Just so," was all James could think of to say.

Mrs. Abbot, for her part, was determined to keep James' first night home from becoming too lachrymose. "Oh, and how could we forget! Congratulations are in order!"

They were? Oh God, he hadn't written about…

"Your young lady! You'll have to bring the future Mrs. Norrington here to meet us! We were overjoyed to hear the news… your father, he said to me, he said, 'Mrs. Abbott, my life is complete. My son will have a family of his own. I need nothing more in this world to make me perfectly happy.'"

He toyed with his teacup. How to say this? "She chose… that is to say, we decided that we would no longer suit."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Abbott, and her hand flew to her mouth. "I'm so sorry… I didn't know."

"How were you to know? I hadn't told you…" He stared at the cup in his hands.

"She jilted you? That ungrateful hussy!" Mrs. Abbott continued.

Dr. Fletcher saw the anguish in James' eyes, and attempted to change the subject. "How long is your furlough? I hope you will have time for a good, long visit…"

James clenched his jaw for a moment. It wasn't like he could have avoided telling them forever. "I've resigned my commission." he said flatly.

They stared at James, dumbfounded, as if he'd just declared that the sky was green or that elephants could fly.

"But why?" Mrs. Abbott asked.

"The _Dauntless_ sank due my negligence… We were in pursuit of a pirate, and I failed to heed the warnings of a hurricane. The ship and all hands were lost." he said. He stared down at the table, sitting motionlessly.

"But it was a storm that did the sinking!" exclaimed Mrs. Abbott. "That can't be laid at your feet."

"Yes! Surely you must have had some appeal…" Mr. Fletcher said quietly.

"I did not." He kept his voice clear of frustration; it was very hard to make the landlocked understand these things. "It was resign, or be cashiered in disgrace."

There was a stunned silence around the table, as words suddenly felt inadequate.

Mrs. Abbot spoke first. "You've had a time of it, haven't you."

James said nothing.

Fletcher cleared his throat. "Your father had many good readings on times of tragedy – "

"I remember them well." He cut the man off. "Do forgive me, but I really am quite tired…"

This appeal found its mark, and Mrs. Abbott stood up. "Oh, you must be exhausted. Come upstairs, I have your old room all set up for you…"

James settled into the room he had lived in as a boy, and utterly failed to get more than a couple of hours' sleep.

* * *

Edward Norrington, D.D. was possessed of a quiet, gentle faith that came to him as easily as rain falls from the sky, and an uncanny knack for saying precisely the right thing at exactly the right moment. For all his idealism, he instinctively knew that the world could be as difficult and complicated as his ivory tower was calm and peaceful, and reacted to people's faults and failures accordingly. He understood that the straight and narrow was not an easy path for some, and devoted his life to helping, truly helping, his fellow man stay on it.

He'd never expected to have a wife or a family, but the pretty, green eyes of Miss Alice Beniston had changed his mind, and, at the ripe old age of fifty-four, he found himself to be a father. He'd hoped his son would follow him into the Church, but saw very early on that the boy was ill-suited to the contemplative life. If he felt regret for that circumstance, it passed quickly, and he took great joy in watching a spirit so different from his own unfold.

Alice Norrington died in childbirth when her young son was but two years old, and the baby girl she bore passed a few days later. For a time, this took the serenity from Dr. Norrington's eyes and made his step heavy and somber, but he trusted in his God, and his faith revived him. He asked his widowed sister, a Mrs. Dora Crowley, to live with them and help raise the boy. She did so gladly: she'd desperately wanted to have children of her own, but had been unable and so she became mother in all but name to young James. Her late husband had been a post-captain stationed in Plymouth and she told James tales of his uncle and the sea. They were semi-fictionalized accounts of the Captain's honor and glory and bravery, and the growing boy listened raptly.

* * *

He went to the grave, as he knew he must, that next morning after breakfast. The weather was cold and grey and the skies spat down a half-hearted drizzle, as befitting the occasion. He went directly to the plot. The grass had begun to grow across the turned dirt before autumn had set in. Fletcher was right: he ought not to mourn immoderately. His father had had almost two decades more than the allotted three-score-and-ten, and had died peacefully in his own bed. A man could hardly ask for more than that.

He stood in front of the graves, a forlorn, damp figure, as cold and stony as the monuments that surrounded him. There lay his father and his aunt, alongside the mother and sister he couldn't even remember. He was literally the last man standing. The finality of it overwhelmed him: everyone that had shared the simpler days of his youth was gone. Intellectually, of course, he had always known that this was how it would be. James was certainly not the first person whose mother and sibling never arose from child-bed; his aunt was his father's elder sister, and Dr. Norrington was already an old man by the time his son was born.

But there was a world of difference between knowing that this day would come, and actually standing, alone, before the graves of his family.

His father had been kind, if a bit distant - an affectionate man, but in his own way. James' memories of him mostly revolved around lessons in his study; even if Dr. Norrington had been a younger man, a room stuffed with books and papers was his natural habitat. James hadn't been a studious boy by nature, but he'd worked hard at his lessons to please his father, and a love of learning had developed over time. On the day James asked his father to let him go into the Navy, his father had only said, "Comport yourself honorably, and to the best of your abilities, and I shall be proud of you no matter your profession."

What would the old scholar think of him now?

The rain started to pour down in earnest, and James took shelter in the church. He took a seat in a back pew and looked around. It was another place that hadn't changed one bit since he'd left. He remembered now the hours spent sitting in this sanctuary. How tiresome that had been, when he was a boy! His father had expected James to set an example during the services, and would punish his son accordingly if he fidgeted or otherwise strayed. Verbally, only: he never once raised his hand. He didn't have to - it was worse than that. When young James was called to account for some childish misdeed or neglect, his father would take off his glasses, look at him sadly, and intone, "You have disappointed me, my son."

"You have disappointed me, my son."

Good Lord, he could hear him still.

The choir started up their rehearsals again, under the organist's tutelage, and the chords of a motet echoed through the sacred space. James gazed up at the stained glass. What he wouldn't give to listen one of his father's sermons just once more! But he had no right to lament, he knew. He had lost his father in the natural order of things. It had been neither unjust nor untimely. Not an illness, not an accident. It simply was.

_He did not, for example, die at sea in a hurricane._

That luctiferous thought was never far from his mind, even now, and it still had the power to tie his gut in anguished knots; to make his eyes burn with tears he was unable to shed. How many children did he make fatherless through that fiasco? _At least one,_ he said to himself, thinking of Mrs. Storrell. There was nothing even remotely fair about that.

He laid his head on the pew in front of him, gasping as that particular psychic laceration gaped open and poured anguish into his veins. Silently, but with every fiber of his being and from the depths of his soul, James Norrington prayed for forgiveness. Let there be some way out, his heart begged. Let there be an anodyne, an antidote for this pain, his spirit pleaded. Any penance he would undertake with a will. Any price, however dear, and he would pay it gladly.

But answer came there none.

"Despair is a very grave sin, James." He could hear his father's voice. "Despair is a lack of faith. You must trust in God that, in times of adversity, there is a reason for your difficulties, even if that reason isn't apparent to you." What reason could possibly be for all of this? If he was being punished for his pride and folly, why did five hundred and seven men have to drown for it? Why did Andrew and Theo have to die for it? He had the blood of his two best friends on his hands. Why hadn't he listened to them? For God's sake, why? They were his trusted lieutenants for a reason….

He sat up straight, trying to concentrate on his surroundings, on the music, on anything to pull his mind out of that vicious and all-too-familiar spiral.

_Si bona suscepimus de manu Domini,_

_mala autem quare non sustineamus?_

_Dominus dedit, Dominus abstulit,_

_sicut Dominus placuit, ita factum est,_

_sit nomen Domini benedictum._

He translated automatically, as he had learned to under his father's tutelage:

If we receive good at the hand of God,

Shall we not then also endure evil?

The Lord gives, the Lord takes away:

As it pleases the Lord, so is it done,

Let the name of the Lord be blessed.

The words seemed to taunt him, as he translated from the Latin. A sharp, discordant note of rage crescendoed through the threnody in his mind. He looked at the altar, and the crucifix hanging above it, and turned his face away.

"No," was all he said, and he stalked back out into the rain.

* * *

James went down to the Public House that night, as was expected of him: for better or for worse, he was the closest thing to a luminary to come out of this village in a very long time. He knew many of the people by name, but he hadn't spent any length of time with them since he was thirteen. The comrades of his youth were men of responsibility, and family: just the sort of fogies that he and his mates despaired of, back in the day. One of his oldest friends, not much older than his suddenly-jealous self, was a married man of seventeen years' standing, and new-made grandfather into the bargain. They all wanted nothing more than to tell him about his father, and so an impromptu wake started up.

It was an ordeal beyond words.

Oh, not hearing about his father: the stories they all told about the old Vicar warmed him to the very core. They were the echoes of a life well-lived, and of a presence that would leave a gaping hole in this small world. But almost every other story started with, "And your father, he was so proud of you!" Each laughing slap on the back was another twist to the knife in his heart. "Oh, we all knew that ye didn't mention the West Indies to the Vicar, not if ye were in a hurry. He'd talk yer ear off, he would." or "Did anyone tell ye about Tommy Scuggins? Oh, that boy'll end on the gallows or in Parliament, right enough. But he figured out that he could get out of his catechism if he asked the Vicar to tell him all about pirates, or fighting the French or the Spanish. And it worked, by God, until the fourth Sunday, when yer father figured it out. Gave the scamp a right good scolding, he did, but he came in here that night and told us all about it, and laughed to beat the band at the boy's cleverness…"

It was only the easy availability of large quantities of hard liquor that made it at all bearable, and if anyone noticed the quantity he drank, well, it was common knowledge that Navy men were like that.

* * *

He awoke with a sickening throb in his head, painful enough to make him decide that the hangovers were getting worse. Then again, the ache and the nausea were, in their own way, very nearly as distracting as being inebriated, if a great deal less pleasant. He sat up, cursing the drink: he would be remiss if he didn't call on Lord Leynham today, but given his current state, he wasn't sure if that was the best of ideas. He considered crying off, but that would leave him in the house; both Mrs. Abbott and Mr. Fletcher were determined to provide all the kindness and comfort they could, but their well-meant attentions were more than he could stomach right now. He dragged himself out of bed.

The Leynham family had been linked to Inverskern since time immemorial: while their scions were probably exaggerating when they claimed that they were mentioned in the Domesday Book, it wasn't that much of a stretch. They were known as careful stewards and generous liege-lords, throwing off a black sheep every generation or so: just enough to keep the gossip interesting.

The walk to Leynham Manor cleared James' head a little, and he felt at least semi-human by the time he was shown into his lordship's study.

"James!" Lord Leynham came around from behind the desk to greet him. A short, stocky man in his fifties, the years had been quite kind to the Baron, giving him a distinguished air. "If you aren't a sight for sore eyes…"

They clasped hands. "It's good to see you as well, sir." James responded. He'd always liked Baron Leynham: the Norringtons had been frequent guests at the estate when he was younger.

"Lady Leynham and I were disconsolate at the death of your father. It felt as if we'd lost a member of our own family."

"Very kind of you. It still hardly seems real…"

"I can well imagine. How are you bearing up?"

"I… It was to be expected eventually, after all." James avoided the question.

"Are you otherwise all right?"

"What do you mean?" James asked, giving the man a quizzical look.

"You've… that is to say… I saw…" Leynham gave up. He sighed. He pulled a newspaper from the desk drawer and handed it to James.

As soon as James saw the name of the paper, he knew exactly what the Baron was getting at. Leynham's man of business brought copies of the London papers every time he came down to the estate and one of them was the _Naval Gazette._

James glanced at his feet, and then back up at Leynham. "Yes. Well. There it is."

"I must say, I had to call Anna in to see if I was reading this right… you gave up your commission because of that business in the Mediterranean? What the devil happened?"

James took a deep breath, and once more launched into the story of his fall, starting with the day he proposed to Elizabeth. Leynham asked few questions, and stuck strictly to the facts rather than dwelling on any emotional reactions (much to James' relief). As a result, James found himself recounting far more of the story than he had to anyone else, even though he stuck rigidly to the official account. God only knew what Leynham would have thought if he'd started going off about Aztec-cursed pirates.

"And so you resigned?"

"I received the news about Father, and I saw no point in prolonging the inevitable. The Admiralty was less than pleased with the situation."

"Bloody bastards. You're only as good as your last cock-up…"

"So it would seem."

"What will you do now?"

Questions like that made the headaches redouble. "To tell you the unvarnished truth, I haven't the faintest notion."

Leynham's sharp gaze took in the hollows in James' face and the circles under his eyes, his bleary expression and his slumped-over demeanor. "You look terrible."

"Everyone says that. How, precisely, am I supposed to look?" James asked with some asperity.

"Don't presume to criticize those who are only concerned for your welfare."

James had the grace to look embarrassed.

Leynham looked at James thoughtfully. "My brother… had your father told you I was not the eldest son?"

"I seem to recall… he died in a hunting accident?"

"So it's commonly known. The truth of the matter was that he took his own life."

"What? Why?"

"He was with Stanhope at Brihuega… Just before Stanhope gave the order to surrender, he led his men into the thick of it, and they were ground to a powder. He was the only one to survive, and barely, at that. He couldn't live with it, d'ya see, that he'd wasted all their lives and gained nothing."

"Yes, I see where you think..."

"No, you don't see. I won't tell you not to take it so hard, or not to blame yourself. I'm not going to feed you some pap about this business being God's will and that some good will come out of it somewhere, but I will tell you that throwing your life away over it is the only way to guarantee that no good will come out of it at all, and all that it will mean is that your folly will claim one more victim."

James sat there, gobsmacked.

"You're thinking I have no right to say these things to you. But your father was my dearest friend, and I'll be damned before I let his son martyr himself to grief. Were he here, he would no doubt manage this much better than I am… I am sorry. It would seem that you've had to face more in a shorter span of time than any reasonable man should ever have to."

Words half-formed on James' lips, then vanished. He swallowed hard. "I will consider what you have said."

As if he'd sensed that that was as close to a victory as he was going to get, Leynham simply replied, "That's all I ask," and, after a pause, changed the subject. "I must say, I do feel sorry for the man who has to fill your father's shoes."

James gave a half-smile, glad to be discussing something, anything else. "Indeed. Have you decided to whom will you grant the living?"

"Fletcher's done a good job of it so far, and the people will take to him better than they would to a stranger."

James nodded. "Father would approve. He had a very good opinion of his abilities."

"I'm glad to hear you think so. Now, you take all the time you need with the house. Fletcher's not the type to cut up rough about something like that, but nevertheless..."

"Thank you. Sir, I appreciate…"

But he never got to finish his sentence. The door opened, and Lady Leynham hurried in. "James! I'm so glad I didn't miss you. I can't tell you how sorry we were about your father…"

* * *

James returned to the vicarage later that afternoon. The visit turned out to be much more enjoyable than he'd expected, after its rocky beginning; he'd stayed for nuncheon with the Leynhams, and the conversation had stuck strictly to happier topics and pleasant reminiscences.

However, as they always seemed to these days, his good spirits depressed quickly. Well. Fletcher would take his father's place. It could hardly be considered unexpected: Fletcher had been the curate for ten years, doing a good job of it, by all accounts, and Leynham wasn't the type to sell off his living to the highest bidder.

But now, James would have to add to his list of tasks the removal of all his family's personal possessions from the house: the house went with the living. When he was done here, all physical traces of the Norringtons would be gone, save for those four stones in the churchyard. It wasn't as if he could have stayed, but he hated the very idea of this irrevocable step. Nevertheless, it was his duty, and, whatever his personal feelings he wouldn't start shirking now. He'd begin with his own things in the attic, he decided, and climbed the narrow stairs to the top floor.

The question Leynham asked was nagging at him: what **was** he going to do now? His whole life, ever since he could remember, had been about the Navy. All that time spent studying seamanship, navigation, fighting tactics and the law and custom of the sea: these had occupied almost every waking moment of his thoughts for over twenty years – almost two-thirds of his life. And everything had seemed to be going on track, as he'd planned. He'd worked hard and excelled. Rewards had come when they were due and while it was never perfectly clear sailing, it had all made sense. Right up until Jack Sparrow dove into the water to save Elizabeth's life. Good God, if only…

His mind rebelled. He couldn't face another iteration of the litany of his mistakes, not again. He would go mad. Leynham was right.

He opened the nearest chest, and began to sift through the contents. His gaze halted on the sail of a small ship. He picked up the model and turned it around in his hands - his father had given it to him on the last birthday he spent at home. He remembered lecturing his father on the names of the parts of the ship with all the arrogance of a newly-minted thirteen-year-old, rolling his eyes as the old man confused the mainsail with the fore topsail. His aunt had even embroidered a miniature White Ensign to hang from the ensign staff. Dusty and yellowed, it fluttered there still.

The first sob caught him by surprise: it was a wracking, dry-heave of a cry that was as involuntary as it was painful. The second was expected, but no less agonizing. And then there was another. And another, until the bitterness and despondency welled out of him like the noxious, black poisons that they were. For what felt like hours, he wept openly, his head in his hands.

Eventually, this dolorous tide ebbed, and left him wrung out and aching; he could take his pulse by counting the throbs in his head. He wiped his face with his handkerchief, and drew in deep, shuddering breaths.

He went back downstairs and into the garden, to get some fresh air. The rainstorm had washed the sky clean to the point of almost preternatural clarity. The crisp breeze cooled the ache in his head and soothed his lungs. For all his physical exhaustion, he felt somewhat better: his grief and sorrow were still there, entwining his soul, but they had eased a bit, like a raging infection that has been lanced and cleaned.

He returned to the house through the kitchen.

"Oh! Master James, there you are. I'll have dinner ready in a tick. You go wash up and make yourself ready." Mrs. Abbot was pulling a loaf of bread from the oven.

"Thank you." he said, and went upstairs to his room. He washed his hands and face, and, startled by a rumble in his stomach, looked up into the glass.

He was actually hungry.


	3. Tartarus

**Author's Note: **And so we wend our way to a fairly sad conclusion. By the way, if anyone catches errors in my French, do let me know so I can correct them - my French teacher didn't teach me THOSE words. :)

* * *

He spent a month settling the estate and packing up his father's things. He could have finished the task sooner, no doubt, but he had no pressing need to leave, and, even leaving aside his grief, much to think on. The first was the practical matter of what to do with his inheritance. He had little need for it; he was a bit ashamed to see that his own fortune dwarfed his father's savings. However, his father certainly hadn't wanted for anything, and would no doubt have refused any help even had James known to offer. He arranged to transfer it to Mrs. Abbott as a pension, over her protests. As far as he was concerned, the money was no more than she deserved for her years of service.

The second thing he had to work out was what he was going to do next. He had a few more good long talks with Lord Leynham; several of his Lordship's cronies had contacts with various shipping companies, and it was likely that a master's position could be arranged. His pride twinged a bit at the thought: mastery of a merchantman, or even a privateer's commission, was hardly fit work for a post-captain, but one had to eat. He was ill-suited to a life of idleness, even had he the fortune to support one, and he could no more give up the sea than he could give up breathing._ Besides_, he thought to himself bitterly, _it was your damned pride that brought you to this. Reap what you've sown._

Regardless, the first matter of business was to return to Port Royal and settle his affairs there. To that end, he bade farewell to Inverskern, and journeyed to Plymouth, to arrange transport.

He took a berth on the _Houri_, under Master Wrightson. Determined to make the most of his fresh start, he began to study everything he would need to know about the Merchant Service. He even went so far as to give the captain a false name, knowing that his own was instantly recognizable to anyone who frequented Port Royal: he wanted to see how things were done on a merchant ship when the captain and crew didn't think the Royal Navy was looking over their collective shoulder.

There was, naturally a lot to be learned. While he was very familiar with the Merchant Service rules regarding contraband or embargoed items, and under what conditions the Royal Navy was permitted to board and search merchant ships flying various colors, the rest of their dealings were a closed book. He spent a great deal of his time observing the crew going about their work and watching their interactions with the officers, and chatting with the Captain, who found Mr. James Beniston to be congenial company. And so it would have continued until they made berth in Port Royal, save for a dinner conversation gone horribly wrong.

James dined with the officers most of the nights of the voyage and, for reasons he was never able to ascertain, had gained the Captain's trust. The man, as a rule, was notoriously loquacious after enough port, but this particular night he was in particularly fine form, and so he started confiding the secrets of the trade. "I'll tell you how to make a tidy profit with ver' little work at all." he slurred. "Ye get a cargo, see, anything you can pick up cheap-like. Ye go to Lloyd's and tell them it's diamonds or gold or a hold fulla slaves…no, no, Gerard, it's fine. Mr. Beniston here's a GOOD man, I can tell. So you tells them it's worth mint, and you pays your insurance. Then, you go meet up with a pirate, and give him the goods. You tell the insurance man that the pirates got it, and they pay you the worth you assigned it. The run I made seven months ago? I got a fifty-percent profit, and I barely had to lift a finger. And that was with the bloody Navy interfering. Not to mention, Zaragoza leaves my ships alone the rest of the time."

"Zaragoza?" James asked sharply. "On the _Huracan_?"

"That's the man and a good man, he is! Gave those prigs a bloody nose. Teach them to mind their own business."

James clenched his fists under the table. Seven months previously, the _Kennebec_ had limped back into port. She'd missed her stays as she'd approached the _Huracan_ and had been raked from bowsprit to stern; one mast gone, the others badly damaged; the sails were shredded and the crew, decimated. Captain Henderson had lost his right arm and an eye in the fight. James had sat on the man's court martial: he'd been acquitted, but it was plain he would get no significant commands in the near future.

_And he was less derelict in his duties than you were,_ said the dark voice.

These were the people for whom his men had died. He had given two decades of his life – two decades of blood and sweat and toil - to the cause of bringing order to the seas, and these were the sort of men who had benefited. He had ordered his men to their deaths to ensure the safety of blackguards and thieves. They were pirates – no, they were worse than pirates. Pirates were paragons of honor compared to these bastards. What the hell had been the point?

He could barely see through the red fog in front of his eyes. The rage encompassed his entire person. He had never been so angry: not at the most feckless incompetent, not at the most corrupt petty administrator, not even at Jack Sparrow. He strode up to head of the table and, in front of all the officers, he landed a punch squarely on Captain Wrightson's face. That was the last thing he remembered of the _Houri's_ Great Cabin.

* * *

"_C'est incroyable!_ You're never going to believe this, sir…" said Gerard.

Wrightson took the beefsteak off his swollen eye and fixed his first mate with a glare. "Well?"

"That _tas de merde_ is James Norrington."

"WHAT!? You're telling me that bastard is… Christ Jesus, what the hell is he doing here, on my ship?"

"I don't know, sir. But you told him everything…"

"I know what I told him!" Wrightson started to panic. "God's balls! He knew all along! Spent the whole damned time just watching… too bloody clever by half!"

"_Oubliez-çela!_ The question is what do we do with him now?"

Wrightson bit his thumbnail. "Does anyone else know?"

"No, sir. I came directly from his cabin."

Wrightson put the bloody meat back on his face. "Good. Then get rid of all his things. Dump them over the side and him along with them."

"But the passengers and the crew will know!" Gerard asked. "_Non! _He goes missing from this ship and _nous sommes enculés_."

"And what do you propose we do about it? If he gets a chance to talk, we're just as fucked." snarled Captain Wrightson.

Gerard thought for a moment. "I have an idea…."

They told their other passengers that they were going to put Mr. Beniston off because he'd made a disturbance which was, essentially, true. They made sure to sail into Tortuga in the middle of the night. They dragged James out, in his full uniform, of course, and dumped him with the insensate drunks in the street. They were off before anyone knew they were there.

In deference to some sense of fair play, however, they did leave him a sword and a pistol with one shot in it.

* * *

Of all the less-than-felicitous awakenings James had undergone in the past few months, he had to admit that this one was the worst. He spat out some semi-coagulated blood, and gingerly explored the monstrous lump on his forehead with his fingers. Where the hell was he?

He squinted in the pre-dawn light, looking for anything familiar in the surrounding town. Damned if this place didn't remind him of Tortuga. He walked over to the nearby tavern to get close enough to read the sign. "The Faithful Bride."

Fiend seize it, this WAS Tortuga.

He cudgeled his memory. The last thing he remembered was talking to Wrightson. Wrightson was telling him about the scam. Right. He hit the Captain, and one of the officers must've knocked him out. James ran his hand down his face and then stopped as he looked at his sleeve. He was in his Navy uniform. Which meant that Wrightson and his men had figured out his true identity.

And that he was in a captain's uniform in the middle of the biggest pirate port in the Caribbean.

Oh, by all that was holy, Wrightson was going to PAY. He was going to hang for this or he was not Commodore James Norrington.

_You aren't 'Commodore James Norrington.' Not anymore._

He ignored the dark voice.

Christ, he was in a tight spot. He had no money, no clothes and no one he could trust. He would have to wait until someone he knew made berth and he could hitch a ride home with them.

And until then? What would he live on?

He turned his coat inside out, and shoved his wig in his pocket: proud he might be, but stupid he was not. The shine of the gold buttons caught his eye, and triggered a thought.

They didn't bring a lot, at the pawnshop, but the buttons from his coat and the buckles off his shoes got him enough money for a pair of boots and almost a week's worth of bread and cheese. He spent his time skulking around the wharves, looking for any ship with a master he could trust, but to no avail. He'd even considered signing on as a crewman to any vessel headed to any port with a significant Naval presence, once his beard grew out enough that he wouldn't be instantly recognized, but very few of the ships who frequented Tortuga would venture such places these days.

_And whose fault is that?_

By the beginning of the second week, he was out of food, out of money, and, so it appeared, out of luck. His stomach growled with hunger. Irony seemed to be personally gunning for him, he decided: he'd suffered from an anorexy all those months when he could have had anything to eat he'd wanted, and now, when there was no food available to him, he was ravenous.

For a week, he managed to avoid running afoul of any of Tortuga's colorful and varied criminal element, but even that good fortune ran out on him. On the ninth night of his exile, he was accosted by a footpad, who had chosen his target very poorly and would not live to profit by the lesson. The fight was short but brutal. On a better occasion, perhaps, or in a better time, James could have disarmed his attacker without injuring him, but on this night, he ran the young man through.

He would have left the corpse alone for the resurrection men to claim in the morning. (Did the doctors of the West Indies know how many of their human dissections were done on Tortugan brawl victims? It was rumored that there was an entire warehouse on the island somewhere filled with casks containing dead bodies preserved in rum.) However, just as he was about to turn away, a glint of gold caught his eye: the footpad hadn't been quite so unlucky with his earlier victims. He automatically reached for the pouch and the coins, but he snatched his hand back when he realized what he'd been about to do.

Was this really happening? Was this really him? His head swam, and he had to sit down for a second. Was James Norrington, Scourge of Piracy, about to loot the dead body of the man he'd just killed? How had it come to this?

A stomach cramp silenced his qualms. Medieval knights, he recalled, after a victory at the joust, had been entitled to their opponents' horses and armor. This was hardly the field of honor, and his opponent had been a gentleman in only the anatomical sense of the word, but that, combined with the dizziness in his head and the roaring in his empty belly, was enough of a fig-leaf. He despised himself for it, and laughed at his own attempts at rationalization, but he took the coins.

He did feel guilty, but not enough to keep him from enjoying the hot food and the soft bed that that money bought.

* * *

On Tortuga, at the harbor, there was building with a large wooden wall, a wall that faced the dock, with no windows or door. Decades before, a brash, blustering pirate, inordinately pleased with the size of the bounty on his head, had nailed up one of his own broadsheets so that everyone could see it. His chief rival, not to be bested, nailed up one of his own right next to it, as soon as the bounty on HIS head surpassed that on the head of the original poster. From this, a curious tradition had sprung up, and that wall fairly bristled and flapped with broadsides in several languages. Many a young pirate, flush with drink and the approbation of his friends, made a semi-ritual (but wholly raucous) pilgrimage to that wall to nail up his first wanted poster.

There was quite a commotion around the wall tonight, James noticed. Men were toasting each other and singing and cheering. Once the crowd died down a little, curiosity got the better of him, and he went over to see what the fuss was all about. There, in the place of honor, was a brand new broadsheet:

"NOTICE!

The Sum of 500 GUINEAS to be Paid

For the Capture and Return to Port Royal

of One

JAMES EDWARD NORRINGTON

Formerly A Captain in His Majesty's Navy

Currently Under SENTENCE of DEATH for

Conspiring to set Free a Man Convicted of

CRIMES against the CROWN and EMPIRE and

CONDEMNED to DEATH.

Why? Why did this happen? What the hell had changed? "Conspiring to set Free a Man Convicted…" Well, that could only be one person, he knew. But that hadn't exactly been a secret… why did that suddenly make him a wanted man? God Almighty, he had to get back to Port Royal this very instant to…

But something inside him broke.

He had no way to fight this. If the interpretation of what he had done had changed, he was completely at its mercy. He had set Sparrow free and had failed to recapture him. That was unquestionably, irrefutably, the essence of what had happened. That misjudgment had destroyed his career and would now kill him, if he returned to British territory.

_That'll make it five hundred and eight, _whispered that dark little voice.

He felt like he'd been struck by a cannon ball.

_It's a good thing Father never lived to see this day…_

He put his hands over his ears to try to shut out the accusations.

…_and it was all for nothing._

"Stop it!" he said out loud, in a strangled voice. The nascent, fragile hope, the incipient faith that he might be able to salvage something from the wreckage of his life shattered, and the shards sliced at his heart and soul. His gorge rose at the sick, aching pain that suddenly burst through his stomach. In addition to everything else, he was an outlaw, now. If he was under sentence of death, his assets were forfeit; he was a pauper. He had no friends and no family to come to his aid, and he wouldn't deserve their help even if he did. He was nothing and worse than nothing. If he were to die in penury on this godforsaken island, it would be nothing more than he deserved.

He'd done his best, by God. He'd worked hard. He'd followed the law and the dictates of honor and of his conscience, and this is where it had brought him. If this was all that his best efforts could manage, then perhaps he deserved to be marked for execution.

He was, by the law of England, a dead man. What did it matter what happened to him now? They would come for him eventually, or he would be turned in, and then he would be hanged.

_Unless you choose your own way, first…_

He clapped his wig back on and turned his coat right-side-out. He drew his sword, summoned up his panache, and went looking for a brawl.

There were always brawls, on Tortuga.

* * *

James Edward Norrington, formerly Commodore of the Jamaica Squadron, embarked on a protracted attempt to end his misery: a drawn-out suicide-by-alcohol-and-pirate. Paradoxically, the drunker he got, the harder he fought; he had more will to live when awash in liquid oblivion. Regardless, inebriate or sober, he bloodied enough noses that even the hardest-edged ruffians started giving "the Navyman" a wide berth, and left him to drown in his bottle. He scarcely remembered half the fights he was in. He even lost to a blackout the conversation in which he poured out all of Wrightson's perfidy to a very interested Spanish sailor, who, after James was done talking, left in a hurry to round up his crew.

And that might have been the end of him. He might have drunk himself to death, or some pirate might have gotten lucky and landed a fatal blow. But, one night in the tavern, as he was just settling down to his first (or was it second?) bottle, a familiar figure sauntered in, and the perfect opportunity for vengeance presented itself.

* * *

It ended badly. He should have known it would.

* * *

It was there, in the mire and pig shit, that his resolution hardened. Such was the way of the world: good men perished where pirates prospered. Oh, for a moment, looking up at Elizabeth's beautiful face, his determination faltered; if she'd only once, in better times, looked at him with that much kindness and sympathy… but that moment passed. Of all the disasters and debacles that had made up these past few months, he had felt that she was the least of them; he was sure that he had put his feelings for her strictly in the past.

He was wrong.

That all came rushing back. The pain and humiliation of it all tore his heart back in two. He had offered himself, body and soul, to a woman who wanted to play pirate, and from there it had all gone to hell.

And more than just pretend to be a pirate: she was on Tortuga and in men's clothing - she had thoroughly joined their number, it seemed. Well. Fine. If that's the way they wanted to play it, he would beat them at their own game. As the French said, "_La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid_."

Revenge is a dish which is eaten cold.

Epilogue

In all honesty, the whole thing started to feel like a mistake before he even made it back to Port Royal.

What was it the pirates said? "Take what you can, and give nothing back." Given how badly his own actions were sitting with him, he could now count among his failures that he didn't even make a very good pirate. What would Jones' monsters do, once they realized that Sparrow's men didn't have the Heart? Would Elizabeth be in danger?

_Let it be. She's not your problem. She has her fiancé to protect her now. She chose her path, you chose yours._

On the other hand, Sparrow had apparently pissed off the supernatural authorities along with the temporal ones. That was, strangely, a comfort, and occasioned a great deal of bitter amusement during the trip home.

* * *

James wouldn't find this out until much later, but it was about this time that the _HMS Alverstoke_, on a routine patrol near Caracas, found the wreckage of the _Houri_. The scene bore all the hallmarks of a pirate attack, and an in-depth questioning of the survivors revealed that the captain of the pirate ship _Huracan_, after a violent argument with Captain Wrightson, had returned to his ship and blasted the merchantman to pieces.

The Alverstokers marked it as shady deal gone bad, and moved along.

* * *

After meeting with Beckett, James took stock of the situation as he headed to his new quarters. His house and possessions were gone: they'd been sold at auction and there was nothing that could be done about that –the loss of his library hurt the most. But, on the plus side, his new salary was generous, when compared to what the Navy used to pay, and this was closer to his old profession than anything he'd dared hope for.

None of this allayed his disquiet. Beckett's supercilious manner grated on his nerves. He'd guessed right away that the changes to Port Royal were his doing; Swann was far too conservative to have done so much so quickly. In the old days, a distressing proportion of James' time had been spent trying to convince the Admiralty to send more men and more guns; he ought to be glad to see the added ships of the line, particularly considering that they were now HIS ships of the line, but this Beckett was still an unknown quantity. (And how had Beckett managed to arrange that so many Navy ships be placed under the command of the East India Trading Company? His influence must have been overwhelming.) Still, he gave James a bad feeling.

But it hardly mattered. He'd come too far to turn back now.

He went to the barracks to get a bath and change into a borrowed uniform. He hurried, hoping not to run into too many people he knew before he'd had a chance to outfit himself as a gentleman again. He was about to head to the bathhouse when the door to his quarters burst open, and, as far as James was concerned, two dead men pelted through. They each grabbed his hand in turn and slapped him hard on the back as he watched them, pale and open-mouthed.

"Christ's wounds, man, how did you get the conviction overturned? And where the devil have you been? You wouldn't credit the rumors going around." Theodore Groves exclaimed.

"And what the hell were you doing there? You look like something the cat dragged in." said Andrew Gillette.

"I… but the two of you were…" James swayed, suddenly unsteady on his feet. Was this a hallucination?

"Oh!" Andrew caught on first. "No. Your timing was impeccable. Sarah told me you left the day before I woke up. Sorry to hear about your father, by the way…"

"Yes… damned shame, that." Theo added.

James sat down. He was reeling with the shock of it. "You're both… you're both alive! This is incredible… you have no idea..." Another minute and he would start crying.

His friends were taken aback: they'd rarely seen him this emotional. "We're all right, James." said Andrew.

He looked up at Andrew. "But Jackson said…" James turned to Groves. "And how did you…?"

"After the storm, some Portuguese plucked me out of the water. Devilish good men, but none of them spoke a word of English, and they took me all the way to Lisbon before I could make myself understood."

James caught his breath. He never thought he'd have the chance to say this. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have listened to you both. We should have stopped, turned back, anything. Forgive me. Please. Forgive me. I…" His voice seized up, and he put his face in his hands to hide the tears that were starting to overflow.

Andrew and Theo stared at the proud man who now humbled himself before them; the notorious stoic who sat there fighting for composure. They exchanged anxious glances. What had befallen him, to bring him to such a point?

Theo tried to drag the conversation back from the brink. He and Andrew would have to find out the details, but this was neither the time nor the place. "Yes, well, Lady Luck was bound to throw you over eventually, the strumpet…"

"Maybe she'll give one of us a chance now…" Andrew picked up where Theo left off. "Someone who won't test her patience so much, perhaps."

James gave a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a disguised sob. "I'll bear that in mind, should I ever regain her favor."

"It seems like you already have, James, we'd almost given you up for dead… and now Beckett's made you an Admiral?" said Andrew. "How did you manage that?"

He looked up at his friends. "You won't believe it. Frankly, I'm not sure I believe it myself."

"Tell us tonight, James. We'll have time for a good long talk." said Theo, looking around nervously. The walls had ears, these days.

"Yes, you both will have to come around to dinner." Andrew's tone turned a trifle smug. "Mrs. Gillette will be furious with me if I don't bring you to see her, James."

"MRS. Gillette?" This was, at least, one piece of unalloyed good news, and James managed a smile. "The inestimable Miss Murdoch finally wore you down, did she?"

Andrew smiled. "She barely let me get up out of bed before she brought the preacher in."

"She barely lets him get up out of bed even now…" cracked Theo.

Andrew crossed his arms and his grin became that of a cat with stolen cream on its whiskers. "Jealous?" he shot back.

Again, James' laughter verged on tears. This exchange was so utterly normal. It was brief glimpse of what life had been like, before the storm and it acted as a salve to his heart.

"My congratulations. There are so many changes…" James said. He noticed his friends' uniforms for the first time: Gillette still wore the blue-and-whites of a Royal Navy captain, but now-Captain Groves was wearing the colors of the East India Trading Company.

"When did that happen? James asked him, nodding at the uniform.

"Well, it was either this or try to convince the Admiralty that I wasn't actually dead." Theo's voice got very quiet. "At the time, it seemed like the better option, but honestly, I wish to Hell I hadn't."

"Why? What's been happening here?"

Gillette and Groves shared another speaking glance.

"Best if we discuss that tonight." said Theo, almost whispering.

* * *

It was past midnight at Sol-Se-Levant, and Laetitia, along with a few of the other girls, was helping to entertain a group of East India merchantmen who were giving a supper-party in one of the private dining rooms. This was, by far, her least favorite part of the job, and the company men just made it worse. They were all a bunch of loudmouthed parvenus, as far as she was concerned; their only saving grace was that they spent money like water.

And they were all too drunk to notice when Delilah slipped in and pulled Laetitia aside. "He's here."

"WHAT? Are you serious?"

"Came in today looking like a dog's arse, so they're saying, but maybe you can find out what really happened, 'cos no one else knows."

Laetitia started to fix her hair. "I can't believe it..." She nearly squeaked with excitement, and started for the door.

Delilah pursed her lips as she watched her friend fuss. "How many more times are you going to let that man break your heart?"

Laetitia's frantic actions stilled, and she gave her friend a sad smile.

"At least one more time, like always."


End file.
